


the cost of the crown.

by angelica_barnes



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Character Study, Fantasy, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Murder, Sorry Not Sorry, Sort Of, The Author Regrets Nothing, apologies if any characterization is wrong, but only when it's deserved, but she's dead don't worry, enjoy i guess???, except not really, haven't watched the show, in truth i'm not really sure what this is, inspired by merlin bbc, it's kind of a metaphor, mentions of grundy (bitch), oh also there's, tho that's kind of the point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 15:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20361136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelica_barnes/pseuds/angelica_barnes
Summary: the children of riverdale are more than they seem.(a character study of sorts, a glance into power dynamics if you will.)





	the cost of the crown.

**Author's Note:**

> title and lyrics taken from "The Cost of the Crown" by Shandeen O'Neill & Mercedes Lackey (really pretty song, i recommend you check it out)
> 
> enjoy!!! :)

**the stars are very beautiful above the palace walls**

**they shine with equal splendour still above far humbler halls**

**I watch them from my window but their bright entrancing glow**

**reminds me of the freedom I gave up so long ago**

Cheryl is born to be a queen.

Her mother teaches her this long before she learns to talk, to walk or breathe. She is born to hold her head high, to find happiness in the sight of people cowering beneath her cold gaze.

She learns well, and rules well. Time pauses for her, as does life when she asks of it. She bows to no one, and they all bow to her.

She is told by many a fiery misfit that she has no right to her crown. That she is tyrant, playing god as a mortal, that she does not have the power to choose who lives and who dies.

She assures the outspoken with a chilling smile that one day she shall.

They believe her, and in her words lie her right to the crown itself - a birthright stolen, a puppeteer hidden in the shadows of the castle whose doors she closes to the world.

Cheryl wears the crown with pride, with conviction, and all those who challenge her find soon they’ve nothing to complain about.

Silence is the price they must pay for their opinions, their tongues locked in bejeweled boxes whose keys she wears around her neck as a reminder to those who speak that they’d be better off not.

**the royal circlet of bright gold rests lightly on my brow**

**I once thought only of the rights this circlet would endow**

**but once I took the crown to which I had been schooled & bred**

**I found it heavy on the heart though light upon the head**

Jughead stumbles upon a sword in a stone.

He does not realize the power awaiting him should he pull it free, and so he pulls, and the kingdom falls crumbling into his hands.

He tries to build it up again, as a good king should, but the stones and dirt have turned to ghosts with the people buried in the ruins.

He is the king of the dead, his crown a ratty hat he found in a thrift store, and he commands his army of skeletons to protect those he loves without their knowledge.

The dead roam the streets of his town, murdering those who threaten the king’s crown and his loved ones. The other royalty are safe from harm, kept alive by the shivers they feel when an invisible guardian wanders their room in the dark.

Jughead wishes not for riches nor for strength. Recognition means nothing to him, and happiness is just as irrelevant. The king does not expect these things, nor pine for them, eyes narrowing towards swinging fists and biting words.

The spirits follow his every thought, his every word, his every hand flicked towards a passerby.

The redheaded boy is saved, the teacher who touches him torn apart on the pavement by unseen wolves. Jughead watches from the shadows as she screams, hooded eyes glinting and teeth bright white in a grin.

Jughead is the king of secrets and chaos, keeping the boy he loves close to his chest and his sister far from the graveyard he has created of this town.

**although I am the head of state in truth I am the least**

**the true queen knows her people fed before she sits to feast**

**the good queen knows her people safe before she takes her rest**

**thinks twice and thrice and yet again before she makes request**

Betty is her parents’ princess.

She lives to please them, to perfect the art of such living, and she excels at her purpose. She is poised and polite, kind and considerate, and the blood-haired queen watches her with glinting eyes.

She is the princess whom the people flock behind, the one they crown by choice in the safety of the early morning, when the sky is bleeding red from black and the queen is nowhere in sight.

She cannot fight the dragons, cannot command the knights, is not able to battle in wars in any way. There are others for that, soldiers and peasants who gather any weapons around to defend her honor.

She thanks them by closing their blank eyes once they have fallen to their graves, bodies piling up in the street, and her parents watch her from behind the windows, expressionless.

Betty does not pretend to deserve her crown. She bows her head to the god her parents taught her to believe in, praying in the church long after its doors have closed.

In the back rows of the pews, the boy with the grey crown sits, a smirk on his lips as he watches her, nodding in her direction as she leaves, feeling another’s presence behind her as she makes her way down the steps.

There’s no one there, she knows, and without thought returns to smiles and twinkling eyes at the children who pool around her knees, laughing in the tangle to get closer to her, their pretty golden princess.

**for they are all my children all that I swore to defend**

**it is my duty to become both queen and trusted friend**

**and of my children high and low from beggar to above**

**the dearest are my heralds who return my care with love**

Archie is the knight whose sword is tarnished and broken.

He cannot save the wicked nor the good, the guilty nor the innocent. He himself feels responsible for every death that befalls the town, though the king tells him otherwise and summons ghosts to soothe the knight to sleep.

He walks hunched over, an unseen burden on his back beholding the safety and happiness for an entire kingdom. He wishes for brethren, for help, but the only he receives comes from those he cannot see, from beyond the grave.

The knight admires the princess, her beauty and her kindness, and he bows before the queen whose crown he guards. The king’s hand he holds, storming down the streets in front of snakes and dead men.

Archie does not know why he was chosen for this life, for the doom of protecting those he loves and swore to but never enough. The king says it’s not his fault, kissing the knight awake curse after curse, but Archie knows better.

**the dearest are my heralds swift to spring to my command**

**who give me aid and fellowship who always understand**

**that land and people first have needs that I may not deny**

**so I must send my dearest friends to danger and to die**

Reggie is the haughty prince in love with the mirror.

He could rule the kingdom well, should the queen and king give up their crowns, but the dead do not listen to him and the living do not respect him. He is thrown aside, beaten down to nothing, until the prince merely has his royal blood to define him as such and nothing much beyond.

He wears rags he pulls from the peddlers he murders, the travelers he tricks to their deaths. He finds upon his head a crown of thorns and wilting roses, vines that choke his enemies at the raise of his finger.

The knight always has a hand on his sword when Reggie’s in the room, and the prince smiles coyly at him from across the hall, telling him to come hither, come forth and meet his match. But the knight bows his head in dull refusal, boring the prince to vengeance once again.

Reggie swears to kill those who defy him, those who disrespect him, to make them regard him as their rightful ruler or suffer greatly for it.

**a friend, a love, a child, it matters not I know indeed**

**that I must sacrifice them all if there should be the need**

**they know and they forgive me, doing more than I require**

**with willing minds and loving hearts go straight to grasp the fire**

Kevin knows he is worth more than his rank.

He serves the king, who in turn offers ghosts for protection, and he converses carefully with the princess, who smiles as if she knows him.

To the prince, he swears his eternal servitude, promising to betray his king. To the queen, he smirks devilishly and says he knows her secrets, dragging her loose strings into his hands to pull on as he pleases.

The king he despises, the safety he’s granted faulty and secondhand, never as important as the knight’s wellbeing. For the knight, the king disregards all laws and nature, defying god’s words for the simple purpose of making the knight smile.

Kevin serves the royal family, every member of it, but makes sure none know his name. He is not to be toiled with, his pockets full of potions and poisons, demons at his beck and call, but he works to keep himself underestimated.

One day, when the knight has died by his own blade, when the king has fallen prey to the dagger of grief, when the prince has been defeated by his own follies, when the queen has stepped down from her throne in shame and embarrassment, when the princess has befallen an unbreakable curse of sleep, the servant will rise.

The servant will rule.

**these tears that burn my eyes are all the tears the queen can’t shed**

**the tears I weep in silence as I mourn my heralds dead**

**oh gods that dwell beyond the stars if you can hear my cry**

**and if you have compassion let me send no more to die**

Veronica is the witch the others have never really met.

She lurks in the woods, magic coursing through her veins, and imagines a golden crown upon her head. Power she has never known, beyond her own abilities. She grows black and white roses in her garden, shrouding the woods in beauty and darkness, daring anyone to cross its borders.

She finds in crows and stallions soldiers, ones that fight for her crown and against the bloody queen. They follow her in armies and herds, her magic guiding them into and through battles unlost.

The prince is the only one who has succumbed to the temptation of her riches, of her power, and she controls him well, with purpose and an iron fist.

The princess is enticing, Veronica’s willing prey. She falls into the witch’s arms almost too easily, whimpering pleas against Veronica’s lips that the witch never answers. Whatever the witch commands, the princess carries through.

The knight is the king’s weakness, and the king is his. She has no need to control them, to puppet them, as their throats are easy enough to slit when the time is right. Their reigns are nearly ended, their rules rocky, the both of them unnoticing as their people loose faith in them.

The servant is no fool, but he is foolish compared to her. He thinks he holds all the cards, but is missing all four aces, which she wears folded like rings around her fingers. Veronica finds him amusing, a funny plaything, and watches him while he sleeps, a knife in her hands poised over his back.

The queen is her only threat, cold and unyielding, and Veronica smiles with black lips, summoning her magic around her and her soldiers behind her.

She shall command the dead. She shall command the demons. She shall command the children. She shall command the vines. She shall command the knights. She shall command the kingdom.

Veronica is born to be a queen.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed it! have a wonderful day!
> 
> :) :) :) :) :) :) :)


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